


A Second Opportunity

by megazorzz



Series: Modern Omega [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Insecure Phil Coulson, M/M, Medical Procedure, OR IS IT??, Omega Phil Coulson, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Sex, Sexual Dysfunction, clint coulson - Freeform, operation, phlint - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has decided to, well, get himself "neutered." He hated the sound of it, but no other word really captured the essence of the medical procedure, one he just signed up for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Second Opportunity

            

            “Should you decide to go through with this procedure, Mr. Coulson, you can make an appointment with the front desk on your way out.”

            Dr. Wilson checked her clipboard. She was short and unremarkable looking, but one of the few in the city with the precious license framed on her office wall. Phil knew intelligence ran through every fiber of her.

            She frowned slightly. Phil ran a finger beneath his collar. The room felt as if it were closing in on him.

            “There will be a two week waiting period once you make the appointment,” she said, writing down his name in her calendar.

            “The ‘Second Opportunities’ Act, wasn’t it?”

            She nodded and pushed up her glasses. “Yes it was.” She rolled her eyes at the name. “I guess they didn’t want any omegas to make any rash decisions.”

            “Now where have I heard that before?” Phil scoffed.

            The level-headed Beta crossed her arms and stood. “I know. But honestly, you’re lucky that the Feds legalized the procedure in the first place.” She looked out the window at the rainy skyline. “If I had my way, omegas would have been able to get this done years ago.”

            Phil looked out with her. Years ago he still had prospects, romantically speaking. But between SHIELD, his age and the fact that the agent had weightier things on his mind than a handful of exhilarating sexual encounters, Phil came to the same inevitable and logical conclusion that many omegas across the United States were reaching: that it was all too much. But soon his existence would be tempered and efficient. Perfect for SHIELD.

            And in any case, he was too old for children. Julie would remain a mere dream, after all. Phil sighed.

            “Can I be frank, Mr. Coulson?”

            “Go ahead.”

            She returned to her desk and stirred her tea. “I don’t understand how Omegas handle it: feeling like everything’s beyond your control, the intense need while in heat, the predatory Alphas…All of it. Not to mention all the obstacles Omegas have faced over the years. But I guess you won’t have to put up with that anymore. At least some of it. Are you at all relieved?”

            Phil sank. “Overall, yes." He sat back in the cushioned chair. "My heats have been becoming more and more erratic. It’s been…interfering with my work. I can't have that happen.”

            “It’s not common, but some Omegas do experience that phenomenon once they hit a certain period in their lifetimes.”

            “You don’t have to sugarcoat it, Doc.”

            She chuckled. “It’s nothing serious, Phil. There are some medications that can help regulate your schedule. They’re not foolproof, but helpful. Regardless, if you decide to go through with the procedure, you won’t have to worry about irregular heats.”

            “Yes. I suppose I won’t.”

 

\+ + +

 

            Coulson hastily shoved the appointment slip in his calendar when he heard the rapping at his office door.

            “Come in.”

            Clint Barton stuck his head in. “Guess who?” Phil perked up. Clint wiped the sweat from his forehead as he sat. Phil scented the air.

            He knew that the archer across the desk was a Beta. He had the typical Beta scent; a little off, perhaps, but inoffensive, even slightly tantalizing, although Phil supposed that that had more to do with the man it belonged to more than anything else.

            Since he began his work at SHIELD some years ago, Clint made frequent visits to Phil’s office. He would come in with some smart-ass line or joke and Phil would surrender a small grin and they would debrief or talk about the rookies, maybe make plans to have a beer and watch T.V. It reminded them that there was mundaneness outside of the shrouded machinations of SHIELD. Oh, how Clint smiled.

            Phil remembered one instance when Clint pretended to be an assassin and burst out of the vent. Clint said later that he had wanted to get a kick out of Phil, but not in a literal sense.

            Now he was here once more, in his gym shorts and muscle tee, oblivious to the myriad ways in which Phil’s imagination, gripped by heat and the need for release, draped Clint’s body over his, pounding, pounding, pounding.

            When it happened last weekend after his appointment, Phil at last began to abandon his delusion that Clint’s face and chest were simply convenient tools he employed to reach an end. Now Clint was an end in of himself. Phil was not romantically ambitious, however, and he left his fantasy at that.

            Clint slung the towel behind his neck, arms glistening in the stale, fluorescent lighting. “The gym’s hot today.”

            Phil straightened his tie and tapped his finger on his desk, searching for some outlet for his stymied urges. “I can see that.” An email chimed and he sighed in relief as he busily typed his reply to some boring, bureaucratic nonsense.

            Clint popped open a bottle of water and poured it down his gullet, Adam’s apple undulating with each swallow. Phil went stone-faced. In a way, he would miss these inopportune surges after his operation. But it was for the better, he reasoned.

            “Can you shower before you come here next time?”

            He gargled and swallowed. “What? Worried that I'm staining the upholstery?”

            “Yes.”

            Clint shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I can.”

            They paused, eyeing one another. Phil shook his head. He knew it could never happen. Too many logistical matters barricaded him in. Clint, like the doctor whose name was impeccably written in his leather-bound calendar, barely registered in his nostrils.

            When out at this or that bar, he would watch as Clint scanned the place, picking up on Betas, forcing Phil’s heart down his throat that much more each time. Beta and Omega pairings were rare, even in this post-post-post society; a Beta just simply wouldn’t do for an omega in heat, though many have tried.

            Clint started to chug his water again. “It appears you are recovering well, if the therapists are letting you walk about like this.”

            “The doctors say I’m not ready to put life and limb on the line just yet, though. But you know me, I hate being restricted.”

            Phil smirked and then guilt piled up on his shoulders. He noticed that the once firm muscles were a little flat. He wasn’t surprised, but his shock persisted, nonetheless.

            Three weeks spent lying in a hospital bed unconscious tended to do that to a man. Clint was slightly pale, but his color was starting to return. Phil counted his blessings.

            “So is the physical therapy going well?”

            “You could say that.”

            “Clint.”

            “What? Those doctors were going at a snail’s pace. I know what I’m doing. It’s not my first time on the recovery track.” Clint stood up and walked over to the wall. He tucked his head in and balanced on his head, his sneakers scuffing the paintjob. “See, Coulson? Look what I can do!”

            Clint’s foot jiggled and sank forward toward the floor. Phil darted over and caught Barton’s legs as they toppled over. Clint laughed in a resigned way as he lay on the floor, looking up at him with those eyes. “I guess I’m not strong enough yet.”

            “What exactly did you say to your doctors?”

            Clint sat up on the floor, still beaming. “Nothing, really. Just gave ‘em the slip. Besides, all the equipment in the ward smells like hospital. It’s sterile and depressing.” He stood up, face inches away from Phil’s. “I hate that smell.”

            Phil backed down.

            “Just don’t push yourself too hard,” he remonstrated, drumming his finger. He found himself casting his eyes away from Clint, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. “Did you stop by for anything in particular, or…?”

            “Yes, actually.” Barton looked down at his sneakers. “It’s my birthday this weekend. I was wondering if you wanted to come help me celebrate.” He batted his eyelashes.

            Phil had a speech prepared—regulated responses that SHIELD gives to its handlers in situations such as these—but he looked at Clint, fresh out of the med-bay, looking hopeful, and he decided against giving it.

            “I’d like that, Barton.”

            Clint blinked, mouth slightly agape. “Uhh, great! It’s nothing fancy or anything. Just gonna have a few beers. Maybe a steak or two. I’ve just been wolfing everything down lately.”

            “Sounds nice,” Phil said, offering a sincere smile.

            Clint braced himself to stand and groaned. He rubbed his thigh. Phil snuck a glance.  “I guess I pushed it a little bit, huh?” Phil helped him to the door, silently reveling when Clint grabbed his arm. “I won’t push it so hard. I promise.”

            “Good. Well…I’ll see you on Saturday, then,” Phil said. Clint gave him a once over across the threshold. 

            “See you there, Phil.”

  

\+ + +

  

            For the rest of the week, he couldn’t stop thinking about Clint’s birthday. He tied his ties, polished his shoes, and performed other menial tasks, seeking any distraction that would get his mind off of the date. It might be the last time he would spend time with Clint before the operation freed him from his Omega urges.

            The small, curt checkmarks on his calendar counted down toward Clint’s birthday and his operation. Every time he saw Barton that week, the Beta asked him if he was still coming. Phil reassured him again and again in his own version of heartiness. Phil noticed renewed sureness in Clint’s stride and a slight bounce in his step that week. He could not pinpoint any reason for it. Perhaps it was the upcoming dinner or his speedy recovery.

            He attributed the jolt of his infatuation to the looming operation. While hanging out with Clint outside of HQ wasn’t uncommon, he would still savor the opportunity to sit down with Clint at an actual restaurant.

            Phil was daydreaming when he accidentally smeared a dab of shoe polish on his trousers. “Dammit.”

            He pulled off his pants, thankful that these trousers didn’t belong to a suit. Phil left his closet door ajar as he changed. He caught his reflection and studied the wrinkles and crow’s feet. He hoped Clint wouldn’t take notice like his last date did.

            Greg was what most would call handsome: short haircut, the fuzz of beard and the right amount of muscle—enough to attract, but not enough to intimidate.

            It wasn’t anything drastic—no name-calling or overt judgment on Greg’s part—but his date’s ultimate rejection inspired in Phil a quiet devastation, one he knew intimately. Some called him boring and others wanted a one-night stand and still others wanted children. Greg talked at length about his nieces and nephews. He never called Phil back.

            A handful of gray hairs begged for Phil’s attention. He ran his hands over his face and turned his jaw to the side. He always loved his profile: the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones and the noble perch his chin created.

            His mother always told him that he was classically handsome. “You look like you should have been in film.” Phil frequently humored her in her old age and asked her what kind. “Definitely in black and white pictures. You’d have been the quiet, mildly oblivious one that the lead Alpha pined for.” Phil always told her that lead Alphas never swooned. That was the Omega’s job, like it or not.

            He was daydreaming again, wondering how much more boisterous Clint would be were he an Alpha, when a frigid draft crept between his legs; he must have cooked himself in the bath, because the back his thighs were vaguely tender as well. He carefully pulled on a fresh pair of trousers, begging his body to cooperate with him tonight.

            The small shoebox tucked away in the corner of his closet caught his eye. He picked it up and sat on the bed and removed the lid, cringing as he eyed its contents: a small collection of knotting dildos, some blue, some black, and his favorite, an impressive, silky red model—the only one he ever purchased in person.

            He remembered spending his last heat with that one. Barton flooded his thoughts and “Clint” was on his lips. But before he could linger on it, he tucked the box away, further back in the closet. He didn’t need to dwell on the silicone reminders of his bachelorhood.

            His phone vibrated. A text from Barton told him the bar’s address, followed by a smiley face.

 

\+ + +

 

            The place was a barbecue joint called the “Alpha’s Den.” The double doors were capped with an imposing neon bull in flickering flames. Phil dabbed a small bit of sweat from his brow.

            The door opened with a burst of hot air, the smell of meat and the din of a raucous crowd. TVs flickered in almost every corner, with packs of Alphas glued to the screen. The flame motif was a bit overpowering, Phil thought. It definitely seemed like a place no Omegas would be seen by themselves. The hormones were a bit overpowering for Phil, but tempered by the smell of meat and wood smoke, so he paid it little mind.

            The hostess wore a red and black blouse and slacks and greeted him with a warm, practiced smile. Phil said he was meeting someone. She gave him a once over and showed him to Clint’s bright red booth.

            Clint smiled and met them half way. “You made it!” Clint enveloped him in a bear hug. "I got a booth, hope you don't mind."

            “Not at all.” Phil eyed the booth, which was empty save for Clint’s glass of water and the two menus. “Is anyone else coming? Am I early?”

            Clint waved him off and sat down. “Well, Enrique and Todd are in Quebec, Gwen’s in China and…”

            “So it’s just you and me?”

            Smiling sheepishly and scratching the back of his head, Clint looked up at him with a dollop of embarrassment. “I guess so.”

            “That’s okay. I don’t mind at all.” Phil’s heart thrashed in his chest.

            “Good. Good. I’m ready for a beer. Are you?”

            He summoned a server. Clint got them small-brew IPAs. He also requested extra napkins.

            Clint strung together a garland of jokes. More and more like his old self. Something seemed off, however. Clint exhibited a steely certainty, an added firmness to his gestures that someone who recently woke from a coma shouldn’t display. His cheeks were full of life and color and his eyes clear, like he was watching the world through a new lens. The good a week can do, Phil marveled.

            He ordered a half-rack of ribs with mash and Clint got an old-fashioned T-bone steak with fries.

            Phil dismissed his observations. He assigned to them the bleak overexcitement that comes dining alone with someone so perfect and perfectly unattainable.

            “Have you gone back to the ward yet?” Phil eventually asked, sipping his glass and eyeing him with a hint of joking reprimand; it was more to put him back in a normal frame of mind than to scold the archer.

            “Yeah,” Clint started, pausing to take a drink. “But I ditched them again.”

            He waited for a reproving word, but Phil only shrugged at him. What the hell, it’s his birthday. “As long as you think you’re ready to be on your own.”

            “Thanks…and I am getting there.” Clint smirked and Phil ringed a finger beneath his collar. “They wanted me to walk with those support bars and they recommended light stretching and this and that. It was boring the hell out of me! I’m already tumbling and doing flips. You’d think that I’m some withered husk with how delicate they are.” Clint rubbed his chin. “Though I do need to go back to them and grab something…but that can wait a little.”

            Phil tilted his head and waited for an explanation, but none came. “The doctors just want to make sure you don’t overexert yourself. You are a pretty valuable asset. You were placed with me for a reason. They want to make sure you come back in one piece.”

            Just then, he lost concentration and stared into his red wine. Falling rubble ran through his thoughts, charred brick and mortar and a scene Clint lying motionless for what seemed like an eternity. “Granted…sometimes it doesn’t work out that way.”

            Clint sighed and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “We went over this, Phil. I may have been on painkillers when I woke up, but I meant what I said. I don’t blame you. None of us do.” He started picking the label off his second beer. “You couldn’t have known the chemicals in that facility would set off your heat early…”

            Phil looked out at the rumbling crowd and then focused on a knothole in the wooden table.  “They wouldn’t have if I weren’t susceptible.” Clint’s face was near to crumpling. “What they didn’t tell me in health class—which was roughly a thousand years ago—is that when you get older, your heat schedules can sometimes get skewed and inconsistent. That would be fine if I worked in an office…but I’m working with you.”

            “Phil…”

            But he smiled softly, tinted with shades of sadness and resignation. “But at least I won’t have to worry about them soon.”

            Clint perked up, alert. “Why’s that?”

            Phil took a deep breath. “You’ve no doubt heard about the new surgical procedure that congress legalized? The ones Omegas can have performed?”

            Tension ran through Clint, and he made no effort to disguise it. Phil’s face and chest burned and removed his jacket. “So…you’re gonna get neutered?”

            Folding the jacket tenderly and setting it beside him, Phil considered his words. “Well…not exactly. But it will remove the glands that produce the hormones that bring on heats. No more sweating and bucking. No more ruts alone…and I can be a more effective agent. It’s for the best, Clint. If I were in my good graces on that mission, then I wouldn’t have made those faulty calls.”

            Clint reached part of the way across the table. “You don’t have to do it on my behalf, Phil. Those damn bombs didn’t explode because you were in heat.”

            Phil looked into Clint’s eyes. Embers smoldered in his irises. He wouldn’t back down if they got into it. Phil didn’t want to make a scene in such a public place.

            “I’m sorry. It looks like I brought the party down a bit…let’s change the subject, okay? Tonight is supposed to be about you, remember?”

            “If you say so…”

 

\+ + +

 

            “At that point, I was practically naked, except for my underwear and my left shoe, running through the streets with about a grand in cash. So I turned a sharp left and ditched the lug-head Alphas and hid in a dumpster till morning. I practically had to beg the Macy’s outlet to let me go in and buy a decent pair of jeans and a shirt—”

            “Did you find the other shoe?”

            Clint turned a sly eye on Phil. “I did.”

            “No way. You’re lying.”

            “You know those ratty old Converse I refuse to throw away?”

            “Those are the ones?”

            Clint nodded triumphantly and burped. He took his knife and fork and cut off a fat piece. “They are indeed. Goes without saying that I never went to that strip club again, that’s for sure.”

            Phil laughed a raspy laugh. “I know it sounds dumb, but you should write about your life on the road.”

            “Nobody would wanna read that,” Clint chuckled.

            “I definitely would.”

            “You flatter me, Phil.” Clint reached for another napkin and grazed Phil’s hand.

            Phil wiped the sweat from his brow. The bar seemed to be getting warmer. He caught the gaze of a woman seated across the room. His presence provoked more and more glances as the evening turned to night. They weren’t being that loud, were they? He looked back at Clint and was met with a chunk of meat floating in front of his face.

            “You should try my steak.”

            “I can’t eat your birthday steak, Clint.”

            “Aww go on. You know you want to. It’s all thick and juicy.” Clint’s dimples made an appearance. “Seriously, it’s really good.”

            Phil made a grab at the fork but Clint opened is mouth. Phil accepted the command and opened wide. His tongue was a rush of flavor and juices. He was right. It was a good steak. But Clint’s intense gaze made it better.

            As soon as that thought crossed his mind, Phil felt a roiling in his belly. Something must haven not sit well. “Can you excuse me for a minute?”

            “You okay?”

Phil slid out of the booth. “I just need to run to the restroom.”

            He felt eyes trained on him like sniper sights. His gait was off, but wine can really sneak up on you, he reasoned. The walk felt a mile long, the air vaguely distracting.

            Almost bursting through the swinging door, he found the bathroom to be blessedly empty. He examined himself in the mirror; the sweat required a paper towel, and his eyes were searching. He ran a hand through his hair, but did nothing to reduce his haggardness. He tightened his tie, but it felt like a vice grip on his throat. He wanted to get out of these clothes. He needed to get out of his clothes.

            “Shit.”

            After splashing cold water on his face, he exited and took long strides back to the booth. Clint looked at him, nostrils twitching, mouth stern.

            “Are you okay, Phil?”

            “You know how I said how heats become more and more inconvenient after a certain age? I am being inconvenienced.”

            Clint jumped. “Oh! Uhmm, well just sit down and wait here.” Clint jogged off and grabbed their server. Phil saw Clint thumbing to him over his shoulder from across the restaurant. The waitress anxiously nodded and took his credit card.

            When he got back, Phil glared at him. “I was going to get that.”

            “I think we should focus on your current dilemma, shouldn’t we?”

            Phil silently agreed and looked up at Clint’s broad chest and his arms, loving how he loomed over him. He shook his head and grabbed his jacket.

            The waitress returned and Clint handed her the tip and he pulled Phil up with his strong grip. Phil tried to ignore the collecting damp in the seat of his pants. He couldn’t look away from Barton.

            Clint led him by the hand out of the restaurant onto the street corner, where he attempted to hail a cab.

            A dozen cars passed them by all full or off duty. “Dammit.”

            “It’s okay, Clint. I can make it home on my own, I just need to—“

            Clint’s grip tightened. “No way. You can’t just ride a subway when you’re close to bursting. HEY! HEY!” He flailed his arm madly. “I’m gonna get a cab and walk you to your apartment.”

            “I’m just—“ Phil started. Clint silenced him with a soft growl. He remained silent but felt protected by the aegis of Clint’s touch. He loosened his tie with his free hand and dismissed more wishful thinking.

            At last a cab pulled up. Clint opened the door. “After you.”

            Phil nodded and slid over to the left-hand seat. Clint pulled the door shut and told him Phil’s address. The driver merely looked into the rearview mirror with a stern glare, fingers drumming the steering wheel and toothpick snapping in his jaws.

            Clint sat up straight, almost rigid, and leaned toward the opening. As if reading the cabbie’s mind, he said, “He just started. He doesn’t live that far away.”

            He flicked his toothpick out the window and ripped open the little window. He waved the air in front of his nose. “Thought I smelled something.”

            “Quit stalling!” Clint barked.

            Phil was still hooked around the arm. His pulse was in his temples, casting a smear over the edges of his sight, framing Clint’s domination. Dark, primal urges were begging to be unlocked in the back of his mind, all of them centered on Barton, but he shut them away, hoping that his toy chest would be enough this time.

            Clint pulled him tighter as the driver groaned and put the car into drive, speeding down the street, catching the green light, that illuminated Clint’s soft smile.

            “Happy Birthday, Barton. I know it’s not what you expected. I’m sorry.”

            Clint chuckled. “Relax. We’ve been through much worse on our birthdays. Let’s just concentrate on getting you home pre-heat. Think about the boring paperwork you have left to do at the office. Or the piles I haven’t turned in yet. Get your mind off of it for now.” Clint pulled him closer in inches—or maybe some overpowering aura of his was intruding on Phil’s space.

            238-D needed to be filed in triplicate and delivered to three different deputies and Phil needed to review 478-W-III and 145-C needed to get to Fury personally. Numbers and files quickly burnt up in his mind. Nothing could get Clint out of his head—the mischief in his grin and the cock of his head, and how he looked in uniform, the times he almost lost him.

            Counter-intuitively, those thoughts sustained his grip on reality as the blocks flew by in a stream of lights. Phil was determined to give the credit to his sober, sad conclusions about Clint and the barriers that stood between them un-breached.

 

\+ + +

 

            Helping Phil out of his seat, Clint took pity on the cab driver and tipped him well. “Thanks,” he said to the taillights as they sped off.

            Phil struggled to find the correct key to the modest brownstone and dropped it down the front steps. “J-just my luck, eh?”

            In a flash Clint had the key in hand and the door ajar, hand guiding Phil over the threshold and up the steps.

            Once they were on his landing, a searing blaze seized Phil’s thighs. “Just in time.”

            Clint unlocked Phil’s apartment dumped his jacket on the hardwood floor. Phil would have done the same but managed to drape his jacket over the corner of the couch. He rubbed his eyes, determined to find clarity, but none penetrated the haze.

            “You should get out of here. I can handle the rest,” Phil said. A sink ran in the bathroom.

            "Just...let me get something off of my chest first," Clint said, handing Phil a cold washcloth.

            Phil’s head spun and he collapsed on the couch. “What are you talking about?”

            Clint knelt in front of him, eyes on fire. “I mean…while you’re still you. While you can sorta think straight, I wanted to tell you something, and then maybe we can reach a decision together.”

            Phil unbuttoned another button and leaned his head back, covering his eyes with the washcloth. “What is it?"

            Clint stuffed his hands in his pockets, staring deep down. “You’ve read my file? Of course you have, what am I talking about? Well, inside it says that I’m a Beta—SHIELD likes those, right? They’re better at hiding and don’t have to worry about being scented or...heats and all that.”

            “Yeah?”

            Clint sat beside Phil, careful not to frighten him away, as if he were a rare beast. “It’s not true.”

            Phil stopped, head snapping up, flinging the washcloth into his lap. Clint’s blue eyes searched Phil and gliding up and down his frame. He looked frayed about the edges, a quiet tremor waiting to crack through the seemingly calm surface. He breathed deeply through his nostrils, in between short, bated breaths. Phil’s never seen him like this.

            “I’m an Alpha. Was the whole time...”

            “But, how?” Just then the dampness turned to moisture then wetness. He was eye-to-eye with Clint. Ancient urges stalked the crevices of his mind. It couldn’t be true. Something that would suppress an Alpha in action were nearly unheard of.

            Clint sniffed the air. “I can explain later. After your heat is done with. But I wanted to ask…do you want to? With me? I mean…can I be your Alpha tonight?”

            He drew closer to Phil and he was overcome by Clint’s scent, as weak as it was. He smelled of cologne and the riveting vibrations that set Phil’s skin tingling and crawling. He couldn’t think of how Clint slid under the radar. He didn’t care to ponder it now.

            Suddenly, his mouth was on Clint’s, breathing deep his musk, letting that primordial delight fill his lungs, letting it set fire to his capillaries. Clint growled, matching Phil’s rhythmless hunger, tongue lapping at his and then up and down Phil’s neck, while the agent gasped. “We need to get to the room. I—I mean my bedroom.”

            Clint tugged his arm and suddenly Phil was supine on the mattress, Clint exploring until he jerked up, eyes again serious and distant. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

            “Take your shirt off,” Phil snarled. “That’s an order.”

            He smiled devilishly and slowly stripped if off, letting the black cotton glide over his damp skin. Phil pressed his thumps into Clint’s waist and slid down and down to the button of his jeans and pushed the button through the hole. His fingers played with the trail of hair as Clint moaned softly into Phil’s ear, “I’ve wanted to do this with you…For too long.”

            Clint stood up and kicked his pants off, almost tumbling over in the process. Phil fumbled with the infuriating buttons of his shirt. It was tossed to the far corner. Barton crouched down, hands drifting over Phil’s legs and meeting where Phil’s legs came together.

            Clint gripped Phil’s stiff member through the merino wool. “You’re gonna have to get these dry cleaned, you know.”

            Phil gasped a laugh. “Shut it, Barton.”

            “Yes, sir.” In one swift movement, Clint undid the tab of his trousers, wrenched the zipper open (with his teeth) and had them crumpled in the corner of Phil’s bedroom.

            His tongue wetted the front of Phil’s briefs. They were confining and terrible and hot and rough. Phil groaned softly as Clint teased the head of his cock through the thin fabric. “I need—I need these to come off.”

            “No problem.” The briefs prickled against Phil’s skin as they came down. Clint’s eyes never left his. There was a rush of cool air on his cock. Clint gripped it tightly, his thumb making small circles over its head. Phil bucked and writhed.

            A tongue lapped at the tip. Phil shamelessly moaned louder. He wanted his neighbors to know that he was getting it. His mouth closed around Phil, taking him deep. Phil’s hips bucked into the undulation of Clint’s mouth. His fingers crept through Clint’s hair.

            Phil’s insides boiled and churned as Clint drooled on him. A high-pitched ringing invaded his ears. Clint’s mouth, as perfect and warm as it was, was no match for the sprouting girth between his legs.

            “Flip me over,”

            Clint looked up at him through his lashes. “Whatever you say, sir.” His hands were on Phil’s shoulders and in an instant Phil’s vision twisted and he was on his stomach. He perched on his elbows and knees, ass thrust in the air.

            “I need you. Feels like I’m losing my mind,” Phil gasped. His request was met by Clint’s fingers slowly massaging Phil’s hole. Clint laid a small kiss on Phil’s lower back. His index and middle fingers made small circles, eliciting more choked groans.

            Phil’s vision swayed. The small pressure placed in his damp, neglected spots toppled his senses, focusing the entirety of his senses on the places Clint’s fingers visited. They delved deeper and deeper, with careful, slow precision. Phil’s mind about burst when Clint hit that small, glorious spot. “Yes. Yes. Please, I can’t take this anymore. Please, I need your…Oh god.”

            He would throw out his box of dildos tomorrow. He knew that for certain.

            “Yeah?” Clint growled. He rubbed Phil’s lower back. “Just relax, Coulson.” Phil took a deep, shuddering breath. “That’s it. Are you ready?”

            Phil chuckled. “What do you think?”

            “Right.” Phil felt the head push into him steadily. He buried his head in the covers.

            Phil whimpered as the shaft slid in and out, working him loose and open. His entire world focused on the head of Clint’s cock. Clint muttered primal praises and laudations, strings and strings of words incomprehensible.

            Clint pressed his chest against Phil’s back. His breath was hot against Phil’s left ear. “You like that?” he breathed.

            Phil nodded. “Harder. Isn’t my first time.”

            Clint started thrusting, his pelvis smacking against Phil’s ass. His screams of pleasure were trapped in his throat. Fireworks erupted inside of him. He felt teeth tease and gnaw at his ear and neck and a tongue happily tasting his sweat.

            Clint growled as he plunged in and out, hitting Phil’s sweet spot over and over. Clint's hands gripped his hips, fingers raising welts. Phil buried his head in the damp covers, spewing out line after line of obscenity-laden bursts, which Clint reciprocated with grunts and groans.

            At last, the roiling in Phil’s gut was beginning to peak in a tense twist. “Almost, almost…”

            Clint hastened his pace, building the pinnacle on which Phil’s planet was built until Phil came on the covers with no cares, no burdens and no lonesomeness. He exhaled. 

            Clint’s grip on Phil’s hips tightened. He threw his head up as he roared. The swollen knot began to build inside. The hissing in Phil’s ears faded and comfort and warmth set in, making him full and whole. His hand guided Phil to rest on his side.

            His arms were wrapped around Phil as his eyelids grew heavy with sleep. “I love you, Phil,” Clint said upon sleeping ears. 

 

\+ + +

           

             His eyes snapped open. Cool air hit his back. The sun filtered through the venetian blinds. His skin was still damp. Phil guessed it was from the sheets.

            His apartment was still. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and  braced himself to stand. The room contained no sign of Clint, except for the lingering emptiness that visited Phil’s nostrils. He checked the bathroom and then the living room. His jacket was still crumpled in the corner—but Clint’s leather jacket and boots were absent. He pinched his brow and sighed deeply.

            He walked in the nude toward his fridge. It was very much a bachelor’s fridge: a few cartons of leftover Chinese takeout he neglected to dispose of and fruit on the edge of becoming old and wrinkled. He shut it and decided to take a shower.

            As the hot cleansing spray splashed him, he thought of what went wrong. Maybe he was too enthused about the whole encounter, he thought, and scared Clint away. Clint also seemed very practiced in his technique; perhaps it was because casual endeavors were his thing. He shampooed his hair. His eyes stung. He felt like a fool.

            Cold reasoning clouded his mind as he wearily finished his shower. He shut the water off and grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist.

            The bathroom door was ajar, framing the scene of the crime; his covers and sheets were strewn this way and that. He grinned a small grin that only met one side of his mouth. He should have taken a photo. The mess was quite impressive.

            But, as he walked about picking up an errant sock, drying his hair, thinking of excuses and cold words to assuage Clint, convince him—and maybe himself—that last night constituted no deeper emotional trespass, he heard the door shut.

            His heart stopped. He threw on a pair of sweatpants and a discarded undershirt and stepped into the living room. And there was Clint Barton, rummaging through a pair of paper sacks.         

            “Morning, Phil,” he said, pulling out a gallon of milk and a dozen eggs. “How’d you sleep?”

            Phil was dumbstruck. He could do nothing but walk over and wrap his arms around Clint’s waist, breathing him in deep.

            “Missed me, huh?” He placed a package of bacon on the counter. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just,” he turned and smiled that big dumb smile Phil loved, “your refrigerator leaves a lot to be desired.”

            “I thought you left—I mean…I thought that last night was just another night for you.” Phil winced. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I want to say, exactly.”

            “Was it just another lay for you, sir?” Clint asked. “If so…then that’s okay, I guess. I mean I had a great time and all. Was it _just_ a good time last night? Am I being weird?”

            “No. No,” Phil stood up straight and cleared his throat. “No.”

            Clint blushed. “Right. Right. Cool. I mean—me too. We’ve just…never had a chance to act on anything before, huh?”

            They were interrupted by the rumbling in Phil’s gut.

            Clint laughed. “I guess I should get started on breakfast, huh? Come on, you can help if you want.”

            “Sure can.”

            Soon the pan was hot and sizzling with bacon, eggshells littered the counter and a stack of hot cakes was piled high. They worked together in contented silence. Phil looked over at Barton, wondering when he’d vanish in a cloud of sleepy smoke and he would be awake again with his favorite red dildo in hand. But nothing came of his efforts to wake.

            Phil grabbed the plates and glasses and set them neatly. “It looks good, Clint.”

            They sat opposite each other at the small kitchen table. Clint dug in, no doubt just as hungry as his Omega.

            “I guess we have some things to discuss, don’t we?”

            “Where to start?” Clint asked, mouth half-full. His gaze was strong and all focused on Phil.

            “How in the world did you hide the fact that you were an Alpha?”

            Clint set his fork aside. “Remember when I said that I needed to grab something from the med ward? Well…there’s this experimental drug that I’ve been testing for SHIELD. Call me a ‘guinea-pig.’”

            “I’ve never heard any program like that.”

            Clint grinned. “You may be a Level Billion or whatever agent, Phil. But there are some things that even you don’t know.”

            “Alright, I get it. But when did you start taking it? When we first met, I had no inkling whatsoever that you were an Alpha.”

            “It was sort of a bargaining chip. The recruiters didn’t like certain things about my service history.”

            “Like how you’re a loose-cannon who doesn’t play by the rules?”

            “Very funny,” Clint said as cut his fried egg with a fork, “I told them that I’d take that drug. Always hated being an Alpha anyway.”

            “Why?”

            Clint shrugged. “They’re assholes. Not all of them, but exception proves the rule, right?” He crunched his bacon. “They stomp around like big shots, getting everything handed to them and shit.”  Clint’s brow furrowed in deep consideration. “I’ve never had anything handed to me in my whole damn life. What difference would it make if I were a Beta?”

            “I see…So you were off the pills because of my foul-ups…I take it the pills didn’t interact well with your meds on the ward.

            Clint nodded. “The pills clogged up other things before that, too. It also removed pretty much all of my sexual urges. When you started going off last night, I almost couldn’t handle it. I’ve forgotten what Omegas smelled like. Tasted like.” He fell silent and considered his lap. “What about you, sir?”

            “What about me?”

            Clint scoffed. “You lug-head. You know what I’m talking about…What are you going to do with about the operation? I don’t want to get in the way. It’s…your decision.” Clint cast his gaze out onto the overcast sky, eyes glazing over. “But, I wouldn’t regret anything. If we were together, I mean.”

            Phil reached under the table and squeezed Clint’s knee. “I'd like that...” Phil sighed. “I know I’m a little old for you and that my heats are going to be irregular from here on out. Even with medication.” He cast a stern gaze at Barton. “Are you sure you don’t mind not having any schedule to follow? It will be an adjustment."

            Clint fed Phil the last of his scrambled eggs. “I meant what I said, Phil.” Clint stood up. “Besides, I am a very flexible person.”

            A smoldering flame rose in Clint’s eyes and Phil inwardly squirmed in want. “Think you’re ready to go again?” Clint asked a playful grin erupting across his face.

            Phil nodded. “I think I have another round in me.”

  

\+ + +

           

            “You look simply effervescent. Glowing, even.” Dr. Wilson looked at him over the brim of her glasses. “Did something change?”

            “You could say that,” Phil replied.

            She pulled out his file. It was kept in a red folder. “Let’s see. It’s been two weeks to the day, Mr. Coulson. Have you made your decision?”

            Phil straightened his tie. “I think I have.”

            “No one will blame you or judge you, whatever path you take,” she said with a slight smile, almost as if she knew that Phil had Clint waiting for him at home.

            Clint had grown back into his hormones and his rugged scents. Fury wasn’t too thrilled to have one of their best assets scented once again, but said that the researchers had enough data and plenty of other subjects.

            “Who knows?” Fury had said, “Maybe we’ll have a spray or deodorant soon.”

            Phil looked out at the sunny skyline and knew that Clint looked upon the same. “I’ve decided to stay as I am.”

            “I thought so.” She checked a small box on his folder and tucked it into her file cabinet.

 

 

            


End file.
